


Salvation: 7 years later - Retrouvailles

by Diane Marling (Lauredessine)



Series: Salvation [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Medieval Medicine, Middle Ages, No Plot/Plotless, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-05-18 23:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauredessine/pseuds/Diane%20Marling
Summary: Roland and his wife are back in Normandy following the death of Roland's mother. What a wondrous occasion to gloat, to rave and meet some old friends again - alive and dead.





	1. The inn-tender and his wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaizyDoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaizyDoe/gifts).



Joseph was over himself. His satisfaction knew no bound on this day.

A large following had come to his humble inn to spend a few days and he could already hear the rattling sound of silver in his purse. The following was made of a small troop and a richly adorned coach carried by two of the finest horses he had ever seen. If Eliza had marveled at first, and gloated upon their fortunate felicity, she know did her utmost to please the lady of the coach and her three children who had set at once to play with her own sons.

The whole town had gathered to eye such an attraction, a display of wealth and elegance, so rare in the little village.  Hard not to: the troop had ridden stirring up mountains of dust in their wake. The man riding in front wore an armor and was flanked by many a warrior, probably fearing for his safety - with good reason. Joseph knew that many a man who had once attempted to cross the forest had been left for dead. He remembered as well as anyone the rumors about Godfrey’s brother; that man who had found but death upon its return.

The man was tall, burly and many scars lined up his face. His hair was a grey-ish blonde, his eyes were of emeralds, his stature that of a nobleman and his demeanor that of a hard-seasoned warrior. He was giving orders in a foreign tongue and took his leave to change in one of the rooms he had requested from Joseph.

The inn-tender squinted.His face looked vaguely familiar. He could have sworn he had met him somewhere.

The woman, on the other hand, had chosen to sit in a corner of the house Eliza had worked her hardest to make comfortable, placing cushions here and there, making the best of a poor accommodation. After all, they were not used to such prominent company.

Joseph’s eyes fell on the woman of the coach. She was surrounded by two women - probably her maids - whose skin was brown and hair was a lush curly brown. Their eyes were rimmed with kohl and they were dressed like Saracens, with their veils kept in place by glinting threads of silver. Joseph clicked his tongue and locked eyes with Eliza. He could see the fear in her irises.

The woman was different, though. She was nearly as tall as her husband, her hair a raven-like black wrung into two braids she clumsily hid behind a white veil. Her bliaut was of the finest silk he had ever seen, deep blue with threads of gold, the length of the skirt dragging on the fresh reeds Joseph had deemed good to set on the over-worn flagstones. Her wrists and neck were arrayed with countless jewels and Joseph saw that her hands were pristine. He gaped in awe. So much magnificence! What a most admirable lady.

She turned her face to him and Joseph started without knowing why.

Her eyes. Pale and grey, almost white, almost beseeching, sad eyes and a sad mouth and a pointy nose. Her face pale, with no color but the pink of her lips. He narrowed his eyes. She also was vaguely familiar.

He played his widest grin, opened his arms and came to replace Eliza by the woman’s side.

“Are there things of interest around here?” the woman asked Eliza with a polite smile.

Eliza beamed with the favor of her words. “Why no, this is a town as normal as can be.”

The woman’s lips seemed to twitch just a little and her eyes to darken ever so slightly. “Really?” she said evenly. “Are there any dangers that might befall my children? I heard threats of wolves and ghosts and witches.” Her eyes widened to give herself the look of fear.

Eliza cackled. “Witches? Oh dear, no. Well,” she whispered as though yielding a secret of an utmost importance, “there were witches once, but father Marcoul and our holy men from the Priory took great care to eradicate this evil. One was tried and hanged, the other… I think she burned in her miserable house. No need to worry, my lady.”

The woman’s smile was of ice. “Why, I am glad good people such as you murder crones and wenches convicted by merciful men of fornicating with the devil. Truly. Holy deeds indeed.”

“My lady?” Eliza batted her eyes.

Joseph stopped in front of them and nodded at Eliza with authority who left, frowning and confused to the pantry where the cook would receive her orders.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” he honeyly said, bowing in respect.

The woman’s smile widened, warmer. “It is as good as can be. Please, do sit.” she said daintily motioning the cushion beside her.

Joseph gave his thanks and sat down, while the woman’s oldest maid eyed him. One of them said something to the noble lady who then answered in the same tongue. The woman spent a good moment eyeing him over and clicked her tongue. She said something to which the woman laughed.

Joseph squinted. “What did she say?”

“She was detailing your face.” he had the same face as always: lanky, stern, horse-like.

“Nothing too disappointing I hope.”

The woman eyed him knowingly and smirked. The little girl ran and tugged at her skirt. She was a pretty girl with her long black hair, her fair complexion and her fair green eyes. Her dress was short, however and Joseph almost hied himself for disapproving of so masculine an allure. Running around with boys was not something suitable with girls.

“Mama, William pushed me.” she sobbed. “I wanted the big stick but he took it and he pushed me.”

The woman sighed and inspected the little girl’s hands. She smiled a genuinely warm smile. “You’ll have a few bruises but nothing much. You do not bleed, so that is good. I could see to it but I don’t think it is that grave.”

“But it hurts,” the girl whined.

The woman frowned playfully and knowingly. “Here’s what I could do,” she whispered.

The girl listened eagerly.

“I could work a little magic, how about that?”

The girl beamed and a big wide smile stretched across her face. “Oh yes!”

Joseph startled at the evocation of magic. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Did this woman know?

The woman’s hand stroke her daughter’s and she gently took them to press upon the bruises, two soft kisses. “One for pain, and one for joy,” she whispered.

The girl squealed and giggled. “You know mama? It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good.” the woman smiled. “William!” she called. “Come here.”

A boy, about the age of the girl strode, sheepish towards his mother and lowered his eyes guiltily. “Oh don’t you give me those kitty-cat eyes sir. Look at me.”

The boy looked, his face strikingly resembling that of the girl.

“What did I say about measuring your strength? Emma is a girl as you well know. She does not have the same strength as you for now.”

Emma stuck out her tongue.

Grave mistake. The mother took notice and frowned. “No. You don’t get to rile him up. You are both at fault here! You do not goad him, you hear me? Be kind to each other! Is it so complicated?”

The two children nodded then looked at each other as if blaming the other for their faults. Then they took their leave and ran somewhere to engage in further mischief. William had seen a large dog and he looked determined to ride it.

“They are good children.” Joseph politely said. “How old?”

“Five.” the woman said proudly.

“Both?” Joseph gaped.

“Yes.”

Joseph’s keen face stretched with surprise. Women birthing two children at the same time was unheard of, but it still retain something magical, almost ethereal that he was compelled to the sign of the cross which had the misfortune to make the woman twist her mouth into a scowl.

“It is no sorcery,” she said pursing her lips. “Just a repayment for…” She halted. Her eyes suddenly grew distant and sad. She regained her composure, eyes sharp as steel. “Will you have me tried and hanged like a witch for begetting twins?” she seethed, venom filling her every words.

Joseph flustered and stuttered some excuse, red to the tip of his ears.

The woman smirked with satisfaction and her smile grew gentler. “I am expecting again.”

Joseph jumped on the occasion to prove himself agreeable. “This is fantastic news! Allow me to congratulate you. Does your husband knows?”

She gently roamed her hand on her belly. “I have told him upon our landing in Frankia. I wouldn’t have insisted to have my ladies in waiting come with me so ardently otherwise. They are not just friends to me. They are also midwives.”

Joseph squinted at the women who were chatting together while watching over the children. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. What a disparate following indeed. He thought the women maids but they were treated like the woman’s equals.

“Tell me,” the woman said with a mischievous grin and forlorn eyes. “How is your family?”

Joseph swelled with importance. “My wife gave birth to a girl one year ago. A beautiful girl. Rose she’s called. A beautiful girl. No doubt she’s going to be the talk of the village. Perhaps she’ll even marry a baron. As you can see, our boys are already strong and sturdy.I have high hopes for them, you see. One is to inherit the inn, another is to be a squire to a lord and another is to be a monk at the priory. My wife and I have already planned everything. My mother… alas my mother has died three years ago. My wife, Eliza was devastated. She loved the woman dearly, and…”

“Your sister,” the woman suddenly said. “How is she?”

Joseph suddenly stilled. He had not mentioned a sister. He gaped at her and squinted. The feeling of familiarity teemed within and he knew not what to do with himself beside fidgeting, praying that she was no witch.

“She’s taken the veil last year.” he babbled.

The woman rolled her eyes. “Your other sister. Mahaut.” she dryly said. “How is Mahaut?” her voice had softened to the point of a feather brushing cold skin.

“Mah-” Joseph paled. “She is… She had gone to London. Her husband he - he trades dye now. He’s traveling often and she,” he squinted at her. He knew he knew her from somewhere. “She has given birth to a boy five years ago and to a girl last year.”

“Is she happy?” The woman’s voice was barely a breath.

“I believe so, yes.” Joseph shook his head. “I - I - I” he stammered. “I - My deepest most sincere apologies, my lady but do I know you from somewhere? Your face seems familiar to me and - and how did you know my sister’s name? Who - who are you?”

The woman’s smile crooked as if mocking. “Come on, can’t you guess? You used to boast about never forgetting a face.”

“Used to -” Joseph stammered. “I - Do you know me?”

“Of course. You do too.” Her smile widened. “Your sister too. I know her heart after all.”

“Wha-”

“Ah! I am sorry for the wait my love. I just couldn’t get out of this mail. I’m ready to go, whenever you see fit.”

Her husband had come, dressed in a matching deep blue tunic that reached his calves, his legs magnified by shining leather hunting boots. He had adorned his nimble fingers with golden rings, his chest with a thick golden chain and had fastened a belt to keep his shirt in place on which he had tied his sword. His sleeves were long and his neckline was just deep enough so that all could gape at his strongly built chest.

His beard was trimmed and his hair was just damp enough so that it looked tamed. He was comely. A mature man in his prime.

He turned to Joseph and his eyes suddenly sparked with a snide edge. “It has been a long time since we last parted, Joseph,” he said.

“Roland!” the woman chided him with an elbow in his stomach. “Be nice,” she purred in his ear.

“Like they have been nice?” the man’s voice had grown deeper, like thunder in the middle of Summer.

“Do to them as you would want they do to you,” the woman evenly said. “Does it ring a bell?”

The man sighed and and breathed in to keep his nerve. He reached for the woman’s hand and kissed the palm before he gently pressed it on his strong chest. The woman was all against her husband, seemingly about to mold herself back to his side.

“Forgive me, my sweet, sweet love. Habit.” he whispered - though it resembled a moan.

Joseph went red at this display of intimacy and was thankful for Eliza who had just came back by his side, proud of herself, seeking the presence of a lord and his lady. Joseph hastily wrapped his arm around his wife’s generous waist. He wasn’t going to lose. No no no!

The man brushed his wife’s cheek ever so gently with his thumb, lingering on her lips, his mouth slightly opened, eyes riveted, his hunger roused.

The woman chuckled and tiptoes to whisper in his ear “Later. Now is not the time.”

His hand traveled round her waist. “Why?” He growled with desire.

“Because we are expected somewhere. And because I have known him as a child.”

With a sigh of utter displeasure, the man released his wife and sulkingly walked to get his children in the yard. The Saracen women followed him with their eyes, concealing their grinning.

“My husband is slow to forgiveness. Do not mind him please.”

Eliza frowned. “Forgiveness? What is there to forgive? Do we know you? Have we done some evil to you?”

The woman’s eyes went wide in awe. Eliza’s genuine stupidity was to her so laughable that she burst out in laughter and bent, her breath cut short by her loud, booming cackling. “Oh Eliza,” she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Eliza you blithering fool! You stupid, stupid cow! You - you said,” she laughed again. “Oh no, this is too much. I can’t -”

Joseph’s reddened. With anger this time. “Lady or not, I will not suffer my wife being scorned at!”

The woman’s laughter ended as soon as it had started. Her eyes grew colder than ice, her face sharper than that of a hawk. “And you,” she seethed. “You are no better. A cow for a horse Mahaut used to say. A fool for a fool! A dress, a veil, a man and you are blind! To tell you and I used to - and you Eliza! You have done me no evil?” the woman was now in a fit of rage that roused the interest of her ladies. “Please! You have done me more evil in my entire life than there is evil to fill your own! Have you forgotten,” the lady raved, stepping closer, looming over them both. “Have you forgotten your snide, your besmirching, your insults? No? I don’t! You have carved them into my skin as deeply as you would carve a lamb! Do you remember the fire? Hm? Have you ever been trapped in a house ablaze? Have you ever seen all your life go into flame? Have you ever seen death and your own chastisement in the face? You haven’t! Because you are so godly Eliza! Oh you convince yourself of that! You! You and all the lech, the bumpkins, the fools, the dregs, the jackanapes, the country yokels, the sluts! She was in her right mind to curse you all! I hope you get what you deserve!” she hollered.

Joseph and his wife were dumbstruck, frozen in their spot as if unbelieving as to the scene in front of them. The woman’s rage colored her cheek with red. She was in a fit and it was gritty, loud and seething. She sounded like thunder.

A man gently pressed his hand on her shoulder - her husband - while the Saracens whispered to one another.

“Ide.” His voice was soft, soft like a breeze. “The baby.”

The woman set her shaking hand on her husband’s while her children eyed her over with curiosity. Their mother, usually so collected had snapped and if the girl seemed to have found it amusing, her son’s face had worry all over it. The woman took in deep breaths and swallowed back some sobs.

It was then Joseph knew. Then he recognized her. Those eyes, the sadness, the sobbing, the red of her cheeks, Ide. Ide. He wavered and took some steps back. His chest heaved with each breaths and he stared, agape face sallow at she who was once his friend.

Ide.

“Ide.” he said in a breath.

She turned her eyes towards him, dark and cruel. “Now you remember,” she said, her voice of umber.

“I - Is this - Is this really you?”

She showed herself with her hand. “As you can see.”

“Ide, I -”

“Ide?” Eliza stepped forward, disgust written all over her face. “You?” she seethed. “Witch.” she spat.

Roland’s hand lingered on the shaft of his sword, eyes darkening, raising a hand in the air demanding her silence.

But Eliza did not listen. She seldom listened to anyone when she was convinced she was in the right. “You in such array! You clinging to a man wealthier than you! You, witch, she-devil, whore! What did you do to him for you to be his wife? Bedeviled him? Did you work your spells with him?” anger colored her face purple. Her eyes fell on the children. Twins! The witch had begotten twins! Sorcery! “And those children! Aye! They are of the devil! Swarthy little knaves! You slut! You engage with Saracens now, don’t you?” she took another step, towering and spiteful. “Sorceress! How many lives did you take for your children? Taking that of dozens of innocent children was not enough?” Her face distorted with utter horror. “To tell I let my sons, my beautiful, my sweet, sweet sons play with those dregs! Those - those demons! Those life-sucking brats!” She waved her hands in the air, eyes bulging, stepping forward, always forward. “Alas! Alas she is back! And she will kill us all! Good sir,” she turned to an ever somber Roland. “Please, break free of her spell and come at once! Come to church at once! The priest there will free you,” then to Ide, “And you! I don’t ever want to see you here! Be gone! A slut like you? Wed a knight? Ha! A jest! Poor and bland like you are, you have nothing to redeem yourself for! If only it was only that! But you also fornicate with the devil! You kill and you kill! You whore! You witch! You bitch! You -”

A sudden slap sent her reeling, shocked and rattling. Her red cheek throbbed with pain and she winced and whined, fallen on the floor.

Roland unsheathed his sword, threatening, ominously looming over the woman aground. His chest heaved heavily with each breath he took. If Ide’s rage had been great, Roland’s was greater and it would make no quarter.

“Never -” he fulminated. “Never again insult my wife! The mother of my children! In front of them! Never! Or I’ll slit your harridan’s throat and leave you to the crows to feast upon!”

Joseph helped Eliza on her feet. Her cheeks were streaked with tears but none more abundant than Ide’s.

Roland was right. She shouldn’t have insisted. To tell she only wanted to make peace with Joseph. To tell she had only come for news of Mahaut. To tell it had all started again.

It was a mistake. A grave mistake. She should have known better. Known worse.

“But - but - she is - don’t you know?” Eliza pleaded.

Roland barked some orders for his children to be led outside. This done, he fully released the control he had had over his features. Now he was scowling. He was dark. Unforgiving. “I perfectly well know who she is you conniving blithering fool! Do not thing me so weak as to believe in the same outlandish stupidities as you! The only spell I fell upon was kindness! My wife,” he said pointing to Ide. “My beautiful, my wonderful, my precious, my wife, my everything - she saved me! A thousandfold she saved me! A thousandfold she saved people! She was willing to forgive you! She was willing to forgive everything! But you - you godforsaken tart - you wouldn’t have it! How do you live with yourself? Fools! All of you fools! All it takes is a few shades of gold and silver to welcome people you would despise otherwise!” He gave a sour laugh. “And you claim yourselves Christians! Ha! The good jest!” He leaned to Eliza, fuming and raging. “Know this, woman. Since you are so quick to compare, my wife is holier than me.”

Eliza opened and closed her mouth, at a loss about what to reply, at a loss at what just happened, at a loss about everything but her hatred of the witch.

Roland sheltered Ide into a warm embrace, whispering some words of comfort.

Joseph tiptoed around sheepishly. “Ide?” he tentatively said.

She turned to look at him, wary still of his words. Joseph gave a sharp breath. She was his friend. He had almost forgotten it. She had always been his friend.

“Mahaut will be thrilled to see you should you ever decide to go to London.” he gave a faint smile. “And… I wish to apologize. I should have been there - you know, back then. I should have done things differently, thought things differently.”

“Joseph!” Eliza gave an indignant yelp. “Don’t you -”

“Eliza, for Christ’s sake!” Joseph yelled.

His wife recoiled and ran into the kitchen to cry.

Joseph gave a sorry smile as to excuse for her behavior. “She’s - She’ll be fine,” he muttered as to reassure himself. “Ide, I know I haven’t been the best of friends, but I hope that I can still consider myself your friend. I know I am not deserving of it, and I know what happened, but -”

“A mob does many things. Enlighten people is not one of them. Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed you away, but you could fill a sea with ‘what if’s,” she gave a tender smile to her husband. “I’d be happy to call you friend again. I’d be happy to forgive you, if you can forgive me a little.”

Joseph chuckled. “It’s all in the past.” He gave her a shy look - that one she used to love when they were young. “Friends?”

Ide gave a crooked gentle smile. “Of course.” She let him embrace her. “But don’t tell your wife.” Her voice a hard edge in it. “She hates me and I loathe her. You could have done better.”

“Here’s the thing; I love her.” Joseph said somewhat dryly.

“We can’t really help who we love, don’t you think?” Ide’s smile grew sorry.

Roland gnawed at his lower lip and smiled. “Clearly.” His eyes fell on his wife and his grin grew soft and gentle.

Joseph eyed him with interest. “I know you too, don’t I?”

He slid gloves on his hands. “Indeed you do. Although, I know your sister better - Mahaut, that is. A most wondrous woman. Very admirable.” His face softened. “I’ve met you once. I am that crusader who once yelled at Mahaut and tossed a table across the room.” The memory, ridiculous and shameful as it was made him laugh at himself.

“Ah, yes. Forgive me, my lord. The memory is hazy in my mind. So many men have drunk to excess in my inn that I only remember one fit of rage.” He squinted at Ide. “So you married, then? And had children?”

“Children your wife is never to insult again.” the man warned.

“Of course, of course.” Joseph said his hand in the air. “Do I know your name sir?”

“My name is Roland, baron of Holy Land and a knight vowed to the service of king Baldwin of Jerusalem, son of William, brother to Godfrey, lord of those land,” he declaimed proudly. “Husband to Ide the fair-”

“That’s what he’s nicknamed me.” Ide shook her head as though her husband was completely and utterly hopeless.

“Father to Emma and William and more,” he said, his hand roaming Ide’s swollen belly.

Joseph widened his eyes in awe and smiled a bewildered smile to Ide. “Who would have thought? A mother. A baroness. Why, Mahaut will be overjoyed! Your parents would have been proud. I am certain they are from the Heavens.” He fidgeted for a moment, seemingly trying to find his words. “I am happy to see you so happy. I feel like it was long overdue.”

“Thank you.” Ide half-whispered, tears beading in her eyes.

Joseph gave a smile of acknowledgement..

“Very well then,” Roland said. “Ide, are you ready? I don’t want to come late and I have already sent the messenger to the manor house.”

“I’m all set.” Ide replied. “Joseph, I hope that we can count on your hospitality. Naturally you’ll be handsomely paid for your services.”

“Of course.” Joseph said slightly bowing.

Ide rolled her eyes and smiled. “Oh please, Joseph. We’ve known each other since we were old enough to babble. There’s no need for such formalities. I’m not so cruel as to keep the gloating at your expense.”

Joseph tilted his head. “You look happier,” he noted. “I’ve missed your smiles.”

Ide reddened. “I  _ am  _ happier,” she breathed.

Roland led her outside by the hand and Joseph followed. She hopped inside the coach with the Saracens and her children who kept on hugging her while Roland flipped his cloak in a sharp move and mounted on his high horse, bearing himself with a proud composure. He shouted some orders and spurred on his horse and set out, followed by a dozen warriors in arms reverently watching over him.

The gathering had swollen and it looked as though the whole village had come. Father Marcoul blessed the knights and bowed as the coach came near him. Joseph concealed a mocking smile. Oh of course he knew his wife enough to know that she would soon have talked the whole town through what happened inside the inn and who the fair noble lady was. Joseph had no doubt that Ide would once again be the target of rumors, but he trusted that Roland would not let his wife be debased once again.

Perhaps he ought to have a conversation with his own wife after all. He would hate to renounce a friend. And he would most certainly hate to stir up Mahaut’s anger at him. She came back far too rarely for him to jeopardize that.

For now he let her savor the praises and the deference. It felt long overdue.


	2. The lord and his wife

The large retinue of knights, servants and ladies-in-waiting stormed into the walls of the newly-constructed castle - though modest in Roland’s opinion - with a thunderous pounding of hooves and clattering of armors, blades and kite shields.

Roland dismounted while servants ran towards the following and bustled around to help the newcomers. He secured his cloak around his shoulders and took the scene in. The manor was still there, but the keep had finally taken shape atop the old hill that once was the rock of a bailey. It was made of fair yellowish limestone and grey granite, a square tower rising inside a secondary wall which, Roland could swear harbored a garden, looming over the mild hillside, the sound of men working telling of their digging moats around the outer wall.

Roland clicked its tongue. It was smaller than his own keep, but he could tell that Godfrey had chosen to focus on beauty rather than power. Had he built such building in Holy Land, no doubt that the Saracens would have taken it without as much as a sweat. With its square towers, thick and sturdy buttresses, the gates and crucial points of the wall were well defended, but to Roland’s opinion, it was all too simple. If the yard was large and the stocks well supplied, it still would yield if siege it suffered.

But Godfrey had never been a man for displays of strength and might, he was more cunning and surreptitious. He might not engage in battle but he might as well inveigle his enemies into retreating. He was this shrewd he made an excellent diplomat.

If Roland found the building tawdry, he had to admire his brother’s blithering confidence in his own abilities.

The manor was just at the base of the second defensive wall, large stalls and stables surrounding the large building, a wing adjoining it for further comfort to guests of high status or rich merchants. A chapel stood low nearby, almost crooked, but well kept. Roland promised himself to pray it a visit.

The door to the coach opened and Roland strode to help his wife aground and his son and daughter to land safely - they seemed to like to catch flight and their leaping was more than often sources of worry for Roland which did little to prevent wrinkles to stretch between his brows.

With his hand he gracefully helped Ide and took a step back, gaping at his wife, his heart jolting in his chest. He blinked and swallowed. 

She was beautiful.

Not that she was not ordinarily, but she and Zinat had rimmed their eyes with kohl and Roland was awestruck at the result. It gave her pale grey eyes that somber look of thunderclouds, her blue dress a reminder of night, her two black braids a moonless night, her pale skin a cloudy sky, her jewelry and embroidery stars that lit up the entire sky.

Sky. She was sky and she was smiling at him.

Roland caught back his breath. Just in time to catch William and Emma in mid air and secure them gently on the ground with a low gruff.

“Behave,” he said, his voice of umber. He did not even want to begin to think about what Constance would say about his children were they to be just as reckless as they were back home.

William complied immediately, standing tall, seeking with his green eyes the approval of his father. Emma was less delicate. With a sulk she went to Zinat and instantly set out to some mischief with Imad, her son of four.

The Saracen yelled after her son but he was adamant in getting his fill of amusement. This did little to appease Roland and with great heavy strides, he grabbed hold of the children to firmly place them in front of him.

“You will behave. All of you, or you can say goodbye to whatever hopes you had to have some fun. I do not want to hear a word, I don’t want to have to yell, I don’t want to have to raise my voice for you. Is that clear?” His voice boomed, loud and powerful boulders to betoken a storm brewing.

William and Imad shot each other fearful eyes and Emma sulked, tugging at Ide’s skirt.

“Do as you father says, Emma. Can you do that for me?” Ide gently asked.

Emma gave something between a hiss and a growl. “Yes,” she reluctantly vowed.

Roland let out a shaking breath and reached for Ide’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course.” Ide turned to Zinat and said in her dialect, “I think we’ll have to watch for our children while we’re here. Roland’s nerves are about to break and I don’t want to be here to witness the result. Can you mind Imad?”

Zinat nodded her head. “Oh course I’ll mind him. He’s my son. Mashallah he’s not your daughter. She’s untamable.”

Ide clicked her tongue. “I know. I’ll have to find her a game.”

Emma turned her head. “A game?” She was suddenly interested.

“Later,” Ide dismissed. “Roland…” She wrapped her fingers around his arm and settled closer to him, her chest suddenly taut with a difficult breathing. She chewed her lower lip as a man and a woman were walking towards them.

Roland’s chest heaved with erratic breaths, quaking, battling to keep his anger at bay.

Godfrey.

“Brother,” Roland assessed, nodding, stiff as a broom his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. His chest heaved with a silent menace that not even Ide’s gentle touch on his hand was able to tame. His heart-rate sped up while the thrum of anger simmered through his veins. One wrong move, one twitch of an eye, one single flinch and he would be ready to wreak his fury all over Godfrey’s domain. To Hell with God’s peace and Christmas. “It has been long,” he coldly said.

“Long indeed,” Godfrey replied, his voice just as sly and cold, a taut line in place of his lips while the woman froze far behind.

Ide narrowed her eyes and took her husband’s older brother - her brother-in-law, she realized with astonishment - in. He was tall and lean, built like a wet twig, one of those she often found sprouting from fig trees, one of those that bent instead of breaking. One of those she couldn’t trim. His eyes were a cold blue, his hair a pale blond - almost ashy - his face long and comely with that peculiar beauty she found in Roland’s features, though contrary to his younger brother, Godfrey’s face was not marred with countless scars and reshaped bones through wars and brawls. Many a night she had tended his swollen bruises and many a night she had listened to his whimpers all the while drowning her own demons.

But if Godfrey, with his silks and leather hunting-boots, his rings and medallions, resembled a courteous man, she knew better than to scratch the surface of his ice-like eyes. She knew that their coldness hid the venom of a snake, that his tongue unfurled lies upon lies and that he once sought to kill his brother and would have succeeded had she not coaxed Roland back to life.

Mindlessly, her hand went against her children’s heads and she drew her closer to her and her skirts.

The air thickened with a long stretching silence and Zinat nervously stirred, glancing sidelong at her friend. Ide could feel the question on the tip of her tongue and suddenly broke a smile she hoped was charming and polite enough and bent as appropriately as she could regarding her swollen belly for a placid curtsey.

“My lord, brother. I thank you in the name of my household and my husband for your welcome,” she chanted, the lilt of her voice round and enchanting. “Come children, bow and greet your uncle,” she whispered to her children in a sing-song voice loud enough for Godfrey to hear.

The children bent for a slight bow and Godfrey, convinced of his importance and please by such a mark of respect stood straighter, while Roland gaped at his wife and children, on the brink of either anger or complete confusion, astonishment written in his every features. Ide gave him a wink she was amused to note set a low growl of hunger nestling into his throat.

Godfrey clicked his tongue. “Your wife?” He cocked his head towards Roland with a snide grin.

“She,” Roland dryly said. He might as well have been snapping his fingers so sharp were his words.

Godfrey tilted his head, a wry smile etched across his face, disgust reeking in his pupils. “And the offspring. Why, Roland… Only two? I knew you a better lover.”

Roland bristled, the leather of his gloves creaking around his shaft. Ide’s eyes darkened and took that shade of thunderstorm enhanced by the kohl rimming the curve of her eyes.

Zinat clicked her tongue. “Tell me,” she said in her dialect. “Can you afford his silk?”

Ide turned to her for a grin. “I think I could buy his whole travesty of a fortress and the forest nearby and have coins to spare,” she replied into the same tongue, much to Godfrey’s confusion and Roland’s effort to decipher.

Zinat nodded, her eyes locked on Godfrey, a smirk making its way up the corners of her mouth. “Then a slap would not be an insult.”

“It would only bring ill will towards Roland,” Ide shrugged.

“Too bad.” She took Emma and William’s hands. “Come children, let’s go take a walk,” she softly said in Frankish. “Imad, yallah, come too.”

The boy darted towards his mother with an excited smile and off they went, visiting the stables and the poultry yard.

Godfrey’s features twisted into something between fear and contempt. “So now you mingle with Saracens… So much for crusade against heretics. But I guess you never cared much for mother’s songs.”

Roland drew in a long inhale. “At least Saracens are kind enough to shout their attacks, not like some spider webbing its minions to the murder of kin.”

Godfrey gave a mirthless smile. “You should know about chivalry,” he jeered. His eyes darted to Ide. “Your wife speaks their tongue so effortlessly for a Christian woman. She even wears their godless manners. This will not be tolerated here.”

Ide stiffened, stepping forward. “Then I will abide by the law of the land, my lord, since it is your desire. But let go of my women and friends I will not. Should you think to cast them out I would see myself out myself. Then, my lord, would you cast a kinswoman out in the midst of the cold season with Christmas looming closer? Or will you prove to be a better man that I, for now, think you to be?”

Godfrey scoffed, his hand brushing his beard, seemingly about to consider it.

Then stepped forward the woman with her long billowing fur-lined cloak and her long thick dress stirring dry cold dust in her wake.

Ide’s heart jolted and she nearly blushed upon seeing her. Beautiful was not a word enough to describe her. She was more than that. Her hair was so long it felt unreal, so fair and so blond it looked like golden wheat, her eyes were so fair it was enough to send chills down Ide’s spine, her skin so fresh, so pale, so delicate she looked like carved marble. Ide could find no wrinkle, no fold, no flaw to give her a semblance of life. She was unmarred, unsullied, unmisshapened, unscarred by life and for a fleeting moment Ide felt jealous sear through her like a burning knife.

And then she stole a glance at Roland’s eyes and saw their contempt, their annoyance, their lassitude with her demeanor and Ide knew.

It was her. Constance.

The fair woman with the fair name and the fair hands and probably the fair voice.

Ide’s eyes were upon her again and once the first appraisal of this cold beauty passed, she frowned, disappointed. Oh sure she was beautiful, but Ide was suddenly bored with her perfect face. She pictured Mahaut’s face instead, Mahaut and her countless freckles, her livid scars. Even Rosamund felt realer, warmer more charming than this Venus standing in front of her.

Ide suddenly snapped out of her thoughts and bend for yet another curtsy. “My lady,” she said with what she hoped was perceived with a pleasant lilt. “I see that Roland was well advised in vaunting your beauty.”

Roland’s eyes widened ever so slightly and shot her a look of utter confusion to which Ide replied with a placid smile. Her husband begrudged this beauty still and how could Ide blame him when she had been at the root of so many of her nights begging for release. She had even come to wish his death if it meant respite. And now there he stood before her, strong and scarred, rich and made powerful at king Baldwin’s court. And he was been kind enough to swallow his pride and greet Godfrey like a brother and not like his would-be murderer.

Ide was his wife. She could manage the curtsy, the flattery, the taming of her thirst for retribution. Had she not buried her anger long ago, she knew not whether she would have still been Roland’s wife.

Constance measured her with her ice-shard-like eyes, her lips curled into a sharp cold smile. Even then she was cold marble. Something sent a spark in those eyes, something cruel akin to what Ide had often seen in the eyes of those who once sought her death. This was enough to send chills down her spine but she reined it in. Her eyes were of iron. And as far as she knew, ice did not resist swords.

Constance nodded in acknowledgment and turned to Roland, her hand resting on a prominent womb. Her smile turned knife. “Brother,” she bowed. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. Alive.” Roland tensed, his hand on his sword and Constance let out a soft chiming giggle. “Though the occasion is rather unfortunate, wouldn’t you reckon so?”

“Aye, I do. Seems to me only death can bring our family together. Whether that of our mother, or my own.” He turned to meet Ide’s eyes and his own softened as he gently reached for her hand, his heart at peace. “A chance, truly, that my wife here harbors in her hands more life than you could ever bring.” Hers were tainted with poison, her nails daggers to lunge at a man’s heart.

Constance’s eyes fell upon Ide again. “A chance indeed.” She turned back to Roland with snide smiles and cold eyes. “So this is your wife.”

Roland puffed his chest out. “She is. Ide the fair.”

“The commoner, the pauper.” Constance added, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “A match for you.” She clicked her tongue eyeing Ide over contemptuously. “Hardly fair, though.”

Ide chortled.

Constance bristled. “What is so amusing to you?”

Ide played a smile, raised her hand to her veil deliberately bringing the gold and gems of her many jewels to the light for it to dazzle the couple - her brother-in-law and sister-in-law she realized with a tinge of fright and excitement. “My women said something akin to this remark when I first met them. ‘How can a woman with so black a hair wear so fair a veil’ I think was the gist of it.”

“A veil that poorly matches the tan of your hands.”

Ide shrugged and slid her arm around Roland’s tense sword-arm. She could feel his anger simmering almost to the point of brimming and she needed him to be his courteous self; the man she had often seen at Baldwin’s court, trying to charm his way around counts and dukes. “I spend most of my day under the sun, spinning our estate into gold and silver and I would rather be dark than sallow. Sickness is not something to draw admiration. Only pity.”

Much to her satisfaction, Constance’s cheeks colored red.

Godfrey stepped forward stiffly. “Margot and Blanche are already here. Arnoul has not chosen to come. The count of Ponthieu needed him.”

Roland’s heart jolted and he suddenly buoyed, a wide toothy smile stretching across his face. His sisters. How many years had he not seen their faces? A decade would have been enough to cast their faces and their voices into oblivion, but just as Ide never forgot her dead, he never forgot his living. He could still picture the delicate arch of Margot’s eyebrows, her high forehead, her bud-like lips and her deep voice to offer a contrast with her fairness. He could still picture Blanche determined strides, her stern features and her large almond shaped eyes that sparked with mischief whenever she caught his sight as a girl. She could hear her sing, she could smell her smell of roses and hay. He could almost feel his mother’s touch on his cheek, its warmth, as though she was not dead and buried already in a monastery near Abbeville, from where she hailed. He could hear his sister’s laughter and their sighs at his mother’s tales.

If there were people who still cared for him there, it were his sisters. He cherished them as much as they once did him. He could hardly wait to meet his nieces and nephews.

“With all their retinue, of course,” added Constance, as if she shared her husband’s mind. “You will find no room for yours inside our walls. But the manor is empty save for the servants.I don’t think you’d be happy with that though, it would be beneath you. You can camp here or sleep elsewhere.”

Ide’s smile widened. “Isn’t it where you have grown up?” she asked her husband with all the eagerness she could tame.

Roland’s eyes fell to the manor, standing still after all these years. His expert eyes appraised the walls like some fortress to besiege, to sap and wreak low. It seemed strong enough, and besides, he would wish to avoid Godfrey’s presence and his keep. He could never be certain that he did not hide a dagger hidden somewhere to stab him in his sleep. Even his sister’s presence would not bait him into another trap, even when the manor still reeked of the blood he had shed there and his pending death.

He frowned for a deep moment, then broke into an affable smile. “Oh, we’ve stayed in far smaller houses,” he said, knowing, to Ide. “It is as good as it gets and night will fall soon. We will sleep in my old bedchamber and the children can sleep with their nurse in my sisters’ room. Zinat and Fatma will content with Godfrey’s old bedchamber and the warriors, well,” he cocked his head towards Thibault with a large grin. “Used to cold already? You might need a tent.”

Thibault barked a laugh and brushed the remark off with his hand. “Bah! Desert nights are worse! Better here than there.” And he would stay alert to protect Roland. A bed would only blunt precious reflexes acquired in war. At least a tent kept menaces and warriors true. Roland would die in battle or of old age, not murder and hidden daggers. So he had vowed when he swore to him.

Roland nodded with a genuine smile and gently - threateningly - patted Godfrey’s shoulder. “It is settled then. We shall sleep in the manor. Therefore you can sleep safe and sound, brother. I know I will.”

Godfrey blanched for a moment then colored red with anger. “So be it. I’ll see you at my feast tonight,” he dryly barked, striding away in a large and angry stampede.

Constance nodded acidly and followed in her husband’s tow. Roland’s eyes followed them back to the keep, this tall thing of fair stone to match the fairness of its lords, and though he grieved his sisters’ presence beside him to remind him of his childhood, he was struck with the obvious that he was better off in the manor, with his wife and child, as though the world was not there to threaten them.

At once Ide’s features hardened into this deep frown she usually wore when he worry seeped through her skin. She called back Zinat and asked Fatma by her side and gave her orders for the night to her servants, while Roland gathered his men and carried on instructions on wariness and alertness. They set the tents and Ide strode towards the manor, a few tapestries in hand, followed by Zinat and Fatma carrying light chests and the men servants behind carried the bulk of their belongings.

Emma, for one, was glad to help, and found a kitten to play with as soon as she crossed the threshold. Imad followed his mother as always and Roland squinted at this strange boy who never seemed to part from his children. He did not mind Ide’s friendship with the Saracens but he could not help disapproving of his son’s company. William was to be his heir. He would do well turning to Christian boys for friendship. He was expected to marry a count’s daughter and carry forth his legacy, and Christian men rarely trusted those who once were their enemies, whom they now only called by the godless name of heretics. 

Roland knew this Christian kingdom of Jerusalem was built on friable sand. It constantly shifted beneath his feet and he knew it forever would do so. He felt it as strongly as he did the blistering heat clad in steel with hunger as his sole company. He perceived it as sharply as he did his regrets. Jerusalem was sand. It fell once and fell again, and again, and again, until they came and attempted what could not be done. For how could a man, should he be king or mighty, keep sand from billowing into the wind or pour from between his fingers. It almost felt like folly, it almost felt heathen, to try and match God.

Roland shook off those dark thoughts. He feared the omen as much as he feared giving it flesh. He would do what he always did. He would fight and war for his king and try to attempt what could not.

Even if this meant courting those dark tides of his and taking war as a cruel mistress.

He breathed in and gave the gray sky above a smile. And there was Ide, who befriended as many muslim women as she did jew, trading goods for silver, tending her children and those around, taking care of the sick travelling from faraway lands, receiving rewards and gently coaxing the best from his land. For a woman with such a bleak coloring, she brought a dazzling light into the lives of many.

For her he would fight. For her, his land and Jerusalem.

“William,” he called loudly enough to buoy over the clattering of the would-be-made camp. “Come.”

The boy ran to his side, pink-cheeked from effort and panting with a grin. Upon a look at his father looming over him he cast his eyes down, fear and respect mingling into stillness on his face. Roland felt a twinge in his chest seeing what the stern behavior he had always shown to his son to strengthen his spirit had made of this five-year-old boy.

His features softened and he gave a grin he hoped would soothe the boy. “Look at me,” he softly said, his voice even, not too loud, not to low. He gently knelt to his son. “Would you look at me?” he asked as gently as he could considering his simmering frustration.

William raised his face and darted his eyes elsewhere as soon as he met his father’s. He had always been more adventurous when in the company of Imad or his sister. Roland often though she had taken his spirit in the womb, for she was bolder and more rebellious. And when he voiced his concern over to his wife, she merely shrugged and said to wait for things to come in due time, covering her own fears with her words.

Roland breathed a long weary exhale. “You can look at me if you want. If you don’t, that is fine also. Do you want to hear a story?”

William’s eyes gleamed with an eagerness Roland could only chuckle at, ruffling his hair. “I love it when mother tells us stories!” he exclaimed.

“Ah, she tells tales of wonder, don’t you agree?”

William’s young features settled into a frown. “Yes.” His face lightened. “Yes she does!”

“Which one do you prefer?”

William suddenly shifted awkwardly on his spot, cheeks reddening, a sheepish expression etched on his face. “The story - the story of how - of how - of how you met.”

Roland frowned. “That is quite a sad story.”

“No!” William swallowed catching himself up. “No,” he softly said. “Mother says that she gave you a kiss and you woke and fought the forest back to her. She says that the forest had taken her away from those she loved but you were strong enough to free her. It is - it is my favorite story. Emma’s too.”

Roland felt heat rise to his cheeks. A tender smile broke through his lips. “She did?” he breathed.

William nodded and Roland lifted him into his arms, pressing a soft little kiss on his forehead.

“Can I tell you some of my own stories? Do you want to know how I was at your age?”

William giggled. “You tickle me father.”

Roland let his itchy beard wander into his son’s neck and laughed as William giggled and writhed out of his grasp.

And it hit him suddenly, that he had never uttered those words to his own father, whose beard did not itch or tickle. That his own son was luckier than he was. That his father was dead and his mother too. That they never knew him.

His son wrapped his arms around his neck and it was then Roland realized he was shaking with tearless sobs. He drew in a long inhale and gazed at the sky, stroking his son’s shoulders. Here was good. Here was better than then.

For all his dead, all his sins, all his crimes, all his ghosts and all his demons, here was good.

He carried his son towards the place where once stood the training ground. “See,” he said pointing to a place under the shadow of the new wall. “I used to practice my swordsmanship there. I began when I was a little older than you. Things were not as strict then as it is now to become a knight. It was a little still heathen, a little less Christian. Then, what mattered was survival and victory. Then we were warriors and my father said our line is one of mighty warriors. Our forefathers fought beside the great conqueror William you share your name with. Twice they did and twice did the duke-king give them lands. My father used to tell me tales of his stern grandfather who taught him his craft. He told me of his brother, far in England and his own sons and how they sparred on this very ground. It has seen his bruises as it did mine. It will not see yours at least. That is for the desert to witness.”

Roland tried to give his son a comforting look but William’s eyes were locked on that ground and his grip around his father’s neck strengthened. “Don’t worry. I hardly remember the pain and so will you. My mother used to come too. I used to want to impress her. Now I hope I did. And see,” he motioned to the stables. “I came into the stables often to play with my father’s puppies and ponies. I’ve even let one of them bite me. And there,” he showed a narrow path towards the old bailey. “I once was chased with geese. I was fifteen and I never forgotten it, nor my legs. And there,” he showed a tall tree. “I used to climb with my brother, your uncle Godfrey. I almost fell but he caught me and-” He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly shrouded with a mingle of anger and sadness. “Anyway,” he shook his head. “When I was your age I spent most of my time by my mother’s skirts. She told us stories.”

“Mother says that you have a song.”

Roland frowned. “Which one?”

“The song of Roland.”

Roland huffed. He had almost forgotten this travesty of a code. He had freed himself from the chains of his name yet still he felt the ache of the marks it had carved through his flesh to gnaw at his soul.

“It’s just a song,” Roland shrugged. “But my mother used to sing it to us often.” He sighed. “Come, let’s find your mother.”

He released the boy who started running at once, waving to his father once inside and Roland stalked slowly towards that godforsaken manor that had sought his death more than once and still bore the stigmata of his lonely childhood, and the warmth of the place he once called a home.

Though with his family inside, he could almost let it claim its name back.

And with a camp of hard men, at least he felt safer, even with his demons dancing within. He promised himself to go and meet his warriors by the end of the feast and eyed the chapel with envy.

He sighed once again and crossed the threshold of his former home to find Ide bustling around to make the cold rooms as homely as she could.

He inhaled the fresh scent of reeds and fire working past the stench of dust. The scent nearly knocked him to his knees with its waves of memories and melancholy. 

And Ide stood over him and smiled. “Come and rest for a while. The day has been long and is yet to be done with. You could use some respite and so could I.”

“The children?”

She shrugged. “They’ve been running with Imad all day. I think a nap would benefit them.”

His arm slid across her waist and he drew her to his chest for a kiss. “Let me show you my room, then.”

Ide smirked and clung to his hand. “After you, then, husband.”

No matter his dread of the evening feast, Roland was relieved. Here was Ide and here was good.


End file.
